


A-Z Overwatch Prompts

by Asynca



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Lore Exploration, Moicy, Pharmercy, Projects, Symbra, a-z prompts, prompts, writing exercises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-10 08:16:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12907893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asynca/pseuds/Asynca
Summary: Overwatch prompts A-Z, featuring short vignettes with a variety of different characters, in a variety of different timelines, mostly F/F with some gen.All chapters are labelled with their respective characters, so you can read the chapters you like and skip over the others.





	1. A is for Anniversary (Widowmaker, Moira)

 

Widowmaker

- 

It was surreal standing here again after so long. The weather gave her a sense of bitter nostalgia: the overcast sky, the last autumn leaves, and a billowing wind that would soon carry snow. Fitful rain had made the footpath shine, and it was familiar. Too familiar.

Gérard hadn’t wanted to wait until Spring. “Let’s get married now,” he’d told her, taking both her gloved hands in his as they’d stood on the _Pont des Amours_ Bridge, surrounded by thousands of love-locks and red-leaved trees. “Let’s get married before I fly out on my next assignment!”

He’d kissed her then; his cold lips against hers, their breath warming each other’s skin. She’d been laughing, she remembered. Get married in _Autumn_? Her mother would be horrified! There was no point in saying so, though: Gérard had made up his mind. When he made up his mind about something, he’d make it happen, and it would be _incredible_. Everything about him was incredible.

In that kiss—in sealing their own love lock on the wet, cold bridge together—she’d had her whole beautiful life ahead of her. She could still remember that feeling, that sense of being _on top of the world_ , even if she couldn’t feel it now.

She knew where their lock was, too, even after all these years. So many other star-struck lovers had piled theirs on top, all matted together on top of each other that she needed to brush metal chains aside to find theirs.  

It was still there. Rusted a little, now, but still the same gold it had been before. Still with the beautiful swan engraved on one side. She’d had feathers on her wedding dress, just like the feathers she’d been wearing on her costume the night she’d met Gérard. Her premiere as a prima ballerina, dancing Odette/Odile in Swan Lake.

Now, the lock felt cold in her hands. Cold, and wet. Rusted and tired. She pulled at it, wondering if it would break with the rust, but it didn’t. It held strong.

 _He still loves me_ , she thought automatically, and then felt… _something_. Uncomfortable, uneasy. She was shivering, too, she realised. It was happening again.

She took a flight to Iraq that evening. Moira’s driver met her at the airport, and Widowmaker was surprised to find that Moira was waiting in the car, too, dressed as the minister she was.

Widowmaker sunk into the plush leather seat opposite her, tired. She closed her eyes.

Moira didn’t need to ask her how she was feeling. “Some more adjustments are required, I gather?” Her voice was gentle, understanding.

Widowmaker barely had enough breath left to speak. “Yes,” she murmured. “It’s happening again.”


	2. B is for Betrayal (Symmetra, Sombra)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Symmetra returns from a Vishkar project abroad to find a surprise.

Symmetra

- 

Symmetra’s apartment was Perfect.

Of course it was perfect—Vishkar had let her design it herself, and she’d spared no effort to make sure it was the _best_ home ever developed.

On top of the ordinary, mundane features such as north-facing windows, two large and spacious bedrooms and skylights (mandatory), it boasted the most advanced home management AI custom-ordered by the home-owner herself, intelligent climate control, intelligent light and glare monitoring, and special glass that split the light into beautiful sharp panels that spilt from her high ceilings. She had worked with a multi-award-winning interior design team to ensure the furniture and possessions blended effortlessly into each room. Everything was in its rightful place: ordered, catalogued and kept perfectly neat. The apartment was detailed in greys and whites only—calming. No overly-dramatic feature colours. Truly, Symmetra’s home was a work of art.

It had been two months, one week and four days since she’d been able to sit in her Perfect living room, face her perfectly-framed view of Mumbai, and drink her favourite tea from her favourite cup (she brought her tea with her on projects, but it never taste the same with foreign water and other people’s sub-standard crockery).

The hotels Vishkar chose for her _were_ five-star, but they were not Vishkar-designed and Symmetra always felt more drained every day that she stayed in them. She didn’t have her favourite things around her. The beds—while top quality—always felt wrong and different. She never slept exactly right in them, and she couldn’t wait for her own bed, her own home and her own _peace._

When her driver dropped her at the foot over her building, she stood for a moment to smile up at its glistening beauty—she’d helped design the refraction of light off each window herself—before letting the porter open the door for her and escort her upstairs.

“Would you like dinner cooked for you this evening?” The porter asked her as they exited the elevator, their forehead lights flashing with each syllable.

She gave them a look. They should _know_ the answer to that. “Of course not,” she told them sharply. “I always cook for myself.” After all, Symmetra was the only person who knew the way Symmetra liked her meals.

The porter’s eyes flickered in a blink. “Apologies. I simply thought that because you had a guest you might wish to focus on entertaining, instead.”

She stopped for a moment in the middle of the corridor, frowning. Were they malfunctioning? “There are no appointments in my calendar.”

The porter cleared their faux-throat apologetically, projecting an application window at her eye level. Squinting at it, Symmetra noted that an appointment had materialised in her calendar—and that she was _late_ for it!

“That is _impossible_!” she said aloud, rushing forward to the front door of her penthouse. “Vishkar would certainly have warned me if they were to book a last-minute appointment in my _private_ calendar, they know I must have enough time to prepare myself and house to entertain corporate—”

Before she had even unlocked it, the door opened as if it hadn’t been unlocked in the first place and the words died on her lips.  

Standing in the doorway, dressed almost comically in a hotel maid’s outfit—which contrasted painfully with her wild hair, pierces, tattoos and amused expression, was _Sombra_. From that ‘Talon’ corporation Sanjay had recently introduced her to. “Surprise!” She fanned her hands out, twinkling her garishly-polished nails.

Symmetra wasn’t sure how to respond. What was _this woman_ doing in her apartment? Had Vishkar invited her—or—? She stood stunned and with her jaw hanging open. This was completely against protocol!

Sombra noted Symmetra’s shock. “What, not happy to see me?” she said, sounding genuinely surprised anyone would be unhappy to see her. “No? It’s the dress, isn’t it?” She looked down at her maid’s uniform. “Look. I’m as embarrassed as you about the whole Latina-maid-stereotype thing, but your house AI got really upset about me tidying up in my overcoat and I figured ‘why not?’ you know? And I actually like it. It’s kind of cute.” She did a little twirl. “I like the little apron.”

Symmetra just gaped at her. It took her a moment to process what had been said. Wait—had this woman mentioned _cleaning_?! “My apartment doesn’t need to be cleaned!” she managed. “It has state-of-the-art particle-filtering systems so dust doesn’t ever accumulate, and the AI does the rest!”

Sombra actually seemed interested in that. “Huh,” she said. “That explains why this place looks like nobody ever lived in it. Anyway, I fixed that. Gave it a little colour. A little _personality_. Now it looks like an actual home instead of a hotel—”

Symmetra didn’t hear the end of what Sombra said. She pushed roughly past the woman, rushing inside her Perfect home—to find it _desecrated._

Her rug, once a perfect shade of grey, now looked like technicolour garbage you’d buy a penny market in the corner of a dirty slum. Her furniture had been moved from its perfect placement facing in exactly the right directions. The art on the wall had been reprogrammed and was a mess of colours and textures and had clearly been done by some _amateur_ who had no understanding of colour and light—and worse—

Worse.

Someone had reprogrammed the windows so the amount of light they let _glaring_ inside blinded her as she walked into it.

She was surrounded by so many mismatched colours—

So many _wrongly_ placed pieces of furniture—

Her house AI—was playing— _Mexican Pop Music_??? That wasn’t in their programming!—

—It was all a chaotic jumble of colour, and light and sound and she staggered through the debris of her safe-haven, lost in it—

Sombra misinterpreted her shocked silence. “Call it a little welcoming home present,” she said as if she expected Symmetra to be _thankful_ for the destruction she’d wrought!

Symmetra could hardly catch her breath. Her ears were ringing as she swung around to face the smug perpetrator. She was going to _kill_ her. “What have you _done_?!”


	3. C is for Competition (Zarya)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zarya is on the cusp of living her dream - winning gold for Russia as the Strongest Woman in the World.

Competition Eve, Aleksandra liked to call it. Her last full workout before a big event. Her last chance to psych herself up to compete against her rivals the following day. Her last sunrise and sunset as the _second_ strongest woman in the world before she’d clean and jerk the previous title-holder under the proverbial table and take her rightful place on the gold medal podium at the 2070 Olympic Games.

She’d been training her whole life for this: she was _ready_.

The morning sun was warm this far south—to celebrate both the warmth of the host country and her last full workout, Aleksandra dug through her case for her favourite tank top. When she pulled it on, it was tight; _good_. Tight meant she’d put on weight. Tight meant that despite the cold weather back home in Russia, despite media speculation that the rationing would impact her gruelling training regime, it hadn’t. Tight meant she was stronger.

She stood in front of the slender full-length mirror in her hotel room to inspect herself. She was so tall, her reflection had no head, and so wide she had to stand at the back of the room away from the mirror to see all of her. She didn’t need to see all of her, though: just the fabric straining across her shoulders. Just her bare neck. This would be the last day that she looked at that neck before it had a gold medal hanging from it: a testament twenty years of sacrifice, twenty years of hard work building her muscles. Tomorrow, she would be a champion.

She exhaled, a wry smile on her lips. Well, it was time to take that bare neck and those muscles out for their morning run for the cameras!

 Throwing on her some shoes and setting her mp3 chip playlist to classic pop from last century, she stepped out the door and hit the practice fields to warm up.

There was a big crowd there already—spectators were allowed to watch athletes train.

As she jogged out onto the track, the _cheer_ was deafening. That, she hadn’t expected; not in a foreign country. She slowed, turning towards it. Sitting together, all waving Russian flags, was a big crowd of spectators, all painted white red and blue. Most of them were women. A little dazed and not certain they were actually cheering at her, specifically (perhaps she was wrong and there _were_ other Russians who had made it to the finals?) she waved experimentally.

The cheers intensified, and the crowd stood up, flags held high. In amongst the voices, she could hear people shouting her name. It _was_ for her. Despite heightened security back home, these people had travelled down to Morocco for her.   

Her smile was so big she felt like it might nearly crack her face. “I’ll give you something to cheer about tomorrow!” she called back in Russian. “When I win gold and prove our great country has the strongest women in the world!”

She couldn’t have said anything more electrifying to them, and as she commenced her warm up, jogging around the track to get her blood pumping, their flags never stopped waving. They never stopped cheering. Cameras flashed. Their phones were out, taking selfies with her in the background. Taking photos of her training. Taking photos of her waving. Aleksandra couldn’t get the smile off her face— _this_ was what she’d dreamt of!

After she’d done a few rounds with the weights in the centre (bicep curls got the most reaction from the crowd, even if they weren’t the most challenging exercises), she was towelling herself off and heading back to the locker rooms when she was intercepted at the edge of the field by a reporter and his camera.

“Aleksandra Zaryanova!” he greeted her, like he would a real hero. He pronounced her name the proper way; he was Russian, too. She shook his hand firmly. “That was a very strong set right before your competition. Are you ready for the big day?”

Aleksandra gave the camera a disarming smile. “I was _born_ ready,” she said confidently, and then turned that smile on her spectators to a flurry of camera flashes.

The reporter laughed good-naturedly. “Looks like your fans are ready, too!” he observed. “Are you surprised so many people came to watch you today despite all the problems back home at the moment?”

Truly? “No,” she said. “We’ve been on the brink of war with those _machines_ for a decade. Our people need a break from that.” The reporter was nodding, and his silence encouraged her to continue, so she did. “Look at this,” she said, fanning her arms outward. “Why wouldn’t you come here and see the fastest, fittest and strongest people compete? A place where _no one_ has cybernetic enhancements, no one needs to be part-machine to be exceptional? We’re all pure, solid flesh here, and we’re still stronger and smarter than any machines!”

She didn’t doubt if she’d been speaking English that some of the other countries’ spectators would have taken exception to her words; she didn’t care. Those countries hadn’t suffered the tensions Russia had, they didn’t understand. Her words weren’t for those people. They were for the hundreds of people cheering for her in the stand, and the reporter standing across for her. They were for the billion people in her home country who needed to see real humans were still _exceptional_ , so they could continue to be secure in the knowledge that they would never be replaced by a mere robot.

The reporter was nodding. “You are truly an inspiration, Zaryanova,” he said, clapping her on the shoulder, and turning her towards the spectators by holding her hand in the air. “Are you ready to see Aleksandra Zaryanova win gold for Russia tomorrow?”

The sound of their voices roaring hit Aleksandra like a solid wall of sound. It was all so much: the cameras flashing. The flags. Smiling faces, happy people—the knowledge _she_ was eliciting that. That she, herself, was making these people happy. She was giving these people hope in themselves— _this_ was why she was here. This was why she’d always wanted to be here.

She posed for a few photos by the edge of the stand (and signed several sets of cleavage), before returning to the locker rooms to shower and cool down before a lunchtime massage.

She had a set routine for Competition Eves. First, her last full workout. Then, a massage, a big, carbohydrate-full lunch and long, luxurious bath to make sure her muscles were all packed full of energy for crunch time. Then she’d spend the evening relaxing so as not to use her carefully hoarded energy, reading up on nutrition, and turning off her social media to focus on her victory. She needed to rest her body and her mind so should could do her country proud in the morning.

She’d just wandered out of the bath—her last bath as the second strongest woman in the world—when she remembered her interview and wondered what sort of coverage she was getting back home. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt to break her self-imposed media ban to have a little peek, would it…?

Truthfully, she already knew what sort of coverage she’d get. She’d been flooded with letters wishing her good luck and strength from citizens, and cards from politicians, ministers and even from _Katya Volskaya_ _herself_ thanking her for the service she was doing to Russia, giving their people hope and showing their citizens strength in this time of growing tensions between Russians and Omnics. Russia was cheering for her tomorrow, and she’d never felt prouder to finally be able to represent her glorious homeland.

Opening a video window over the kitchenette counter while she fixed herself a snack, she navigated to a Russian news site, expecting her picture to be front and centre—just as it would be tomorrow, after she won. She only glanced at the screen before she opened the fridge.

What she saw there made her double-take. There was nothing about the Olympics at all.

Closing the fridge, she went back to the media window, frowning. That was odd. Perhaps they were saving all the hype until after she had that gold medal around her neck? She dragged the corner of the screen in the air to make it larger.

The picture that greeted her was so unexpected she almost didn’t recognise what it was straight away.

It was of a huge, monstrous Omnic chasing whichever poor soul had been filming it—its canon-like arm poised to shoot something at the camera. The headline read, “ _Breaking News: Towns in Eastern Russia Devastated by Terrorist Omnic Forces.”_ There was a content warning with the video.

The video played—and she watched dozens of people crushed, burnt and torn apart limb-by-limb by the huge machines. Their screamed remained in Aleksandra’s brain even after she’d stopped the video.

She sank back against the counter, stomach sinking.

At first, she didn’t believe it. It felt surreal. She had to play the video again to be sure it wasn’t a tasteless ad for a movie.

It wasn’t an ad, though. She checked another news site, and another one. Then, an international news site, which also featured that video and hordes of others.

It _was_ real.

She leant against the counter, wondering how many of those people who’d been cheering for her in the crowd today wouldn’t have homes to go back to.

Wondering if _she’d_ have a home to go back to.

No sooner had she thought that, she opened her profile to switch her social media back on; she needed to find out if what was left of her extended family were alright. She messaged her grandfather. Her aunt and uncle, and then both their little girls. Then, her neighbours. Her old coach. Everyone she could think of, she messaged them to ask if her town was alright and everyone was safe.

And one by one, the messages bounced.

 _‘Message can not be delivered,_ ’ the screen read in a cheerful Cyrillic font. ‘ _Please try again later!_ ’

She stared at the screen. What if her town was one of the ones attacked?

She tried to use the old copper lines to call the doctor in her village—nothing. Nothing in Central Russia, either. Moscow, too, was disconnected. She called every person, every number she could search for, to nothing except error tones.

Opening another window, she searched furiously through every site she could find for a list of towns impacted by the attacks—there wasn’t any, not yet. It was too early. Heart pounding, she searched the horrible, graphic videos one-by-one for footage of her town, for faces she recognised. For _anything_ she recognised.

It was late in the evening when she gave up combing the media for information, and sat back in the light of dozens of video screens. She had _no idea_ what was happening in her country. The videos had stopped being uploaded after the networks were disabled; all of Russia was now a dark zone.

She’d never felt more helpless.

While she was leaning there, staring blankly through the screens and wondering what on earth she was going to do, a graphic on one of the Russian websites—an internationally hosted site—flashed between various images in front of her. “ _Calling all current and historic army personal, please return immediately to Russia and self-declare at any major border crossing_!” it read. “ _Calling all persons trained in combat, arms, medicine and engineering to return immediately to Russia!_ ”

It was a call to arms.

She looked down at her own, and the hands at the end of them. Her veins were still bulging from that morning’s workout. She could trace the shape of her muscles through her skin, which was still pink from the bath. She was fit. Most of all, she was _strong_.

 _I need to go back to Russia immediately_ , she thought, looking down at her body. _Tonight._ Surely they’d have use of her there? The second strongest woman in the world?

 _But I’m not trained to fight_ , she reminded herself. _I can’t shoot a gun_ , _and I have the competition I’ve been waiting my entire life to win in just eight short hours. Surely, I can wait eight hours? Wouldn’t I be more inspiring if I returned home with a gold medal around my neck_?

She looked across in the mirror—at her body in a dressing down, and her bare neck, where she’d been imagining that medal hanging since she was a little girl. She’d always wanted to be the strongest woman in the world, and she was _on the cusp_ of holding that title. She could taste the words on her lips: _The Strongest Woman in the World._

But…

She looked back at the screens in front of her. The devastation, the screaming people. Those people in the crowd today—they’d cheered her like a national hero. They’re looked at her like the sun shone out of her. They’d called her inspiring; a figure who gave Russia hope.   

But was she really inspiring if she stayed here while her country burned? Was she really a hero if she stayed for a medal and stood on a podium, smiling, living her own dream whilst millions of Russians had their own dreams shattered?

Was she really Russia’s Strongest Woman if she didn’t use her strength when it mattered the most?

She knew the answer to that question before she’d even asked it.

Pushing herself upright again on shaky knees, she approached the mirror. She’d spent her life imagining a gold medal around that neck, she’d spent her life imagining taking that medal home to the people of Russia.

But she couldn’t take a medal home if the _was_ no home, she couldn’t inspire anyone with her medal if there were no people.

She had to go back. She had to go back _right_ now.

In her heart, in her head, she let go of that lifelong dream. Of holding that medal in her hands. Of working for _twenty years_ to be strong enough to hold it—because some things were more important than being number one.

Rushing over to her case, she shoved her belongings hurriedly into it. She brushed her hair, checked she had her passport, and then wheeled her own suitcase out of the room. She’d take a plane to the closest airport to Russia. She’d self-declare at the border. She was returning to Russia without the gold medal, returning to inspire her people, to save her country.

Perhaps she’d never hold the actual title, but that evening when Aleksandra Zaryanova returned to fight for Russia instead of staying to live her childhood dream, she’d forever be heralded ‘The Strongest Woman in the World’.


	4. D is for Dilemma (Tracer, Widowmaker)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D is also for 'the Devil Wears Prada', which is that AU I'm using. Lena Oxton gets an internship at a fashion magazine.

‘Submit your CV everywhere’, they said. ‘Any experience is good experience’, they said. Well, let me be the first one to tell you the truth: that is total and utter _bollocks_. All experience is _not_ equal, and I was pretty bloody sure that having an internship at ‘London Style’ on my CV—regardless of how la-di-dah the website apparently is in the fashion world—would _not_ help me build my way towards a career as one of England’s top investigative journalists.

I held up the letter of offer like it was a specimen in a crime lab. “You’ve got to be bloody kidding me. _London Style_?”

Winston, my shut-in physics-obsessed flatmate, even looked up from whatever he was reading. “What about them?”

I held the letter out for him to squint at. “They ‘look forward to the diversity I’ll bring to their team’, apparently,” I said, reading the quote in my poshest voice. “Total rubbish.”

Winston looked somewhat amused. “Diversity,” he said. “That’s an interesting way to put it.” He looked smug.

“Put what?”

“Your, eh,” he straightened his glasses, “’diverse’ fashion sense.”

I scoffed, looking down at my clothes. “What do you mean? I look fine!” I told him, stretching out my legs to admire my leggings. I loved how bright they were. “These are so comfy, _and_ they’re practical!”

“Aren’t ‘comfortable’ and ‘practical’ the exact antithesis of ‘fashionable’, though?”

I rolled my eyes. “Why am I listening to you, anyway?” I told him, good-naturedly throwing a pillow at his head. “You haven’t left the flat in a decade, you wouldn’t know ‘fashion’ if it hit on you the head!”

He ducked so the _pillow_ didn’t hit him on the head. “Fair point,” he said, chuckling, but when he went back to reading he still had that infuriating smile on his face. He was being pretty bloody smug for someone who hadn’t changed out of his pyjamas in four days, even if he _was_ gay and therefore supposedly endowed with fashionista powers.

Anyway, I wasn’t too worried about my fashion sense. “Anyway, my face is all over the internet, so it’s not like they don’t know what I dress like,” I rationalised. “So there must be a reason they want me there. Perhaps fashion is heading back towards ‘comfortable’ now?” Honestly, I hadn’t followed fashion since—well, since ever. Fashion was for people who had loads of money and didn’t have important things to do.

“Perhaps,” Winston answered, not looking up. I had a feeling he was humouring me.

Well, whatever. I’d gotten an internship, and _any_ internship was better than sitting around on my bum waiting for Al Jhazeera or BBC International to open their own internship programs. Besides, this might be fun, and maybe I’d get some free clothes out of it or something?

I emailed back a quick ‘thank you’ accepting the internship, and then went to go see if my suit still fit. It wouldn’t do turning up to a new job underdressed, would it?

Despite my pacemaker (which was bigger than the model I wore when I got the suit tailored the first time), I could still get my suit over my chest, and I looked quite fit, even if I do say so myself.

On the way to London Style Q, I took every opportunity to admire myself in shop windows. Wearing a suit made me feel (and probably look!) busy and important. The Tube was full of other people in sharp suits, too—and I slotted right in amongst them, a serious business person on her way to a serious job. Well, as serious as fashion can be, anyway. The important thing was that I _looked_ the part!

London Style HQ was a big old building off Oxford Street, and the ground floor looked like something out of an experimental interior design catalogue. All weird colours and sharp shapes everywhere, even the lighting in the lifts was weird. Up on the editorial level—how exciting to be on an _editorial level_ of somewhere, even a fashion mag!—a big imposing reception desk fronted the lift.

It was manned by a rather fit-looking girl—can I make that sort of assessment of someone who was technically my co-worker?—with a beautiful delicate face and beautiful long, hair that was so black it was nearly blue… but wearing the _weirdest bloody feather-boa thing_ about her shoulders. It was also purple. Her earrings looked completely discordant, too. It was a shame, really. A beautiful bird like that should really have been wearing something that showed off how pretty she was, not distracted from it.

Oh well, no matter. Perhaps she was just having an off day. “Hi, eh… ‘Amélie’!” I said, reading her name tag as I approached the reception desk and leant on it. “Is this London Style?” I mean, obviously it was, I was just being polite.

Amélie looked up very slowly from her computer, turned very slowly and gave the huge _London Style Editorial_ sign behind her a pointed look, and then looked back at her computer.

Wow. That was unbelievably rude. So rude I was kind of taken aback. I’d been polite to her, hadn’t I?

She made me wait there like some sort of idiot while she finished whatever she was doing and then looked up at me. “Can I help you?” She said it like she hoped she couldn’t.

I hoped she couldn’t, either. She was _awful_. “Erm. I’m here for the internship?”

She didn’t look surprised, which was even ruder. If she knew who I was, why didn’t she say so? “Oh yes, Lena Oxton,” she said without an iota of surprise, and then gestured off to the side of reception before looking back at her computer. “You can change in there.”

I glanced where she pointed; it was women’s toilets. I didn’t understand what she meant. “…Change?”

She was still looking at her screen. “Yes. Out of whatever you’re wearing into something appropriate.”

What on—I looked down at my suit. “This is a suit,” I pointed out. “How is it not appropriate?”

She signed heavily and looked back at me, giving me a very pointed once over. “Your hems are so long they trail the ground. Your dress shoes are scuffed—you didn’t even polish them to intern at one of the world’s leading _fashion magazines_. The material of your suit is Italian pinstripes circa 2012—if not 2011—it’s a men’s suit so it doesn’t fit your hips property, and the blazer is far, far too tight. It doesn’t flatter you _at all_.” She sat back. “You look _terrible_. You can’t see our CEO dressed like that.”

Honestly, I just… well, I just gaped at her. No one had been that rude to me in such a long time, and, well, it felt like a huge punch in the stomach. I didn’t look terrible, did I? Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure. “It’s only tight because my external pacemaker is bigger than the one I wore when this suit was made!” I told her.

Something ‘dinged’ for her. “Oh, _that’s_ what that irritating noise is,” she said. “Your ‘pacemaker’. Well, I suppose if we’re going to accept _diverse_ people into our workplace we need to accept that occasionally they’re going to have machines attached to them that click constantly.”

That— _gosh_. That was low. Honestly, I was caught between actually crying and climbing over the bloody desk and throttling her. What an awful, awful person this Amélie was!

While I was just staring, she gave me a tired look. “Are we done now?” she asked. “I’ve got a lot of important things to do for the CEO. I don’t have time to babysit interns.”

I should have said something to her then. I should have told her she was cruel, and nasty, and _awful_ , but, honestly, I was just too shocked. I mumbled something—I don’t know what, really—and ducked off towards the toilets she’d pointed at to catch my breath.

The whole place was full-length mirrors (of course it was) which meant I had the opportunity to review my clothes while I composed myself.

I considered my reflection. As much as I hated to admit it, Amélie did have a point—my hems were a bit long. My blazer was a bit tight too; it wrinkled around my waist and sort of gave me a really odd top-heavy look. That wasn’t my fault though. I didn’t _ask_ to be in a horrible airplane accident that meant I needed an artificial heart and a machine to regulate it! It wasn’t like I could just leave the whole thing off for work or something because it didn’t look nice and made weird clicking noises, either, and that horrible woman was _awful_ for being mean about it! How would she like it if _she’d_ been the one to have the accident and had to squish this machine under her weird purple feather boa thing and swish-click everywhere like I had to!? At least I didn’t _mean_ to look terrible, she looked like she was actively trying to wear awful things!

 _I bet no one every stands up to her_ , I thought, seething. _I bet she’s just steamrolled over everyone her whole life and always gets her way_.

Well, I wasn’t about to let that happen. I was going to give this woman her just desserts for being out of order!

I marched right out into reception again, and when Amélie didn’t look at me, I just spoke loudly at the side of her head. “You were really nasty to me,” I told her as calmly and professionally as I could manage.

“In the fashion world, you’re judged based on your appearance,” she said, disinterested. “I’m giving you a little taste of what you can expect based on your phenomenally poor presentation.”

Oh, that little— “No, you’re being a _dick_.” I said, expecting her to react to that word. She didn’t. “You don’t criticize people’s appearances and comment on their life-support devices,” I told her. “That’s just cruel.”

“The world is cruel,” she said dismissively, lifting up the phone receiver. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have a few phone calls I need to—”

“Actually, I _do_ mind,” I said. She wasn’t getting away with being awful that easily. “I’m sure your boss would be horrified to learn how you’ve been speaking to me.”

“She wouldn’t.” She sounded quite confident.

Well, I sincerely doubted that. “Who is she?” I demanded. “I have half a mind to tell her how you’ve treated me!”

 _Now_ she looked up. A dark, cold smile slowly stretched across her face, and she laced her perfectly painted fingers together on the desk in front of her.  “I’m personal assistant to the CEO of London Style,” she said clearly. “My boss is the CEO, Moira O’Deorain.”

….Oh. I swallowed. Dobbing on this right wanker of a receptionist was going to be harder than I thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Superrisu for reading through this and Brit-picking my Tracer <3


	5. E is for Elder (Pharah, Mercy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela and Fareeha finally take some time off to enjoy the house Angela bought in Switzerland. 
> 
> Set after [Homecoming](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654924).

 

Even though the real estate agent had cut the grass for them, Angela’s new garden was very overgrown. Clearly, her old teacher had been ill for a while and unable to keep it, and it had swelled into a jungle of weeds, bushes and hanging branches.

Since they’d made no real plans for their month off—what _did_ people do with their free time?—Fareeha decided to get stuck into their new garden. And since Angela was stuck in a (“Short, I promise!”) teleconference with Geneva HQ, Fareeha took a thick pair of gloves, the long-blade hedge-cutters, and went to do battle with the backyard.

Honestly, it was heavier work that she’d anticipated. She’d imagined a peaceful afternoon doing some light gardening, and instead she was waist-deep in thick hedges, feeling around with her fingers to find the trunks so she could saw them off at the base. When she stood up, she had scratches everywhere. She looked like she’d been commando-crawling through open warfare in shorts and a tank top.

She was just standing up with a fistful of branch-cuttings to examine her stinging arms, when Angela wandered out into the garden, stretching. “Honestly, I’m so sick of these pointless meetings,” she complained, circling her neck to loosen it. “I can’t believe an entire board of specialists are completely incapable of making simple decisions without me to…make them for…” She stopped mid-sentence, her eyes falling on Fareeha. She paused for a moment, and then tension visibly melted away from her shoulders. She put her hands on her hips. “God! Fareeha, have you been _rolling_ in the bushes?”

Fareeha grimaced, and then gave her a bit of a sheepish grin. “You mean that’s not how you clear the garden?”

Angela walked up to Fareeha, shooting her a coy look. “Depends who’s with me, I suppose,” she said, and then motioned for Fareeha to present her arm so she could examine it.

“You could help me clear it, then,” Fareeha suggested, flashing Angela a grin. “Maybe if both of us were rolling in the bushes it would be easier.”

Angela gave her a look.

“And more fun.”

“Fareeha….”

“…and it would certainly make my arms feel better.”

“You know what else would make your arms feel better,” she said, eyes twinkling. “Betadine.”

As Angela spun around and went to go get the First Aid Kit from their kitchen, Fareeha called after her, “Maybe that’s why they call it ‘Better-dine’!” She cackled when Angela leant out of the kitchen window specifically to _groan_ at her.

She was still smiling as she turned back to the pile of branches she’d been working on. She didn’t know what plants they were, but some of the cuttings had quite pretty little sprays of white flowers on them—perhaps they could put a few in a vase inside?

She’d lifted one to her nose when Angela returned, and flinched when Angela swabbed her arm. “That stings!”

Angela scoffed, not easing up even a litter with the swab. “You’ve had four .9mm bullets in your chest before.”

“Yes, but I was unconscious when that happened. I’m conscious now.”

Angela rolled her eyes. “Well, let me know if you feel a little faint,” she said in her doctor voice. “I know how painful tiny, superficial scratches can be to big, seasoned soldiers.”

They were both grinning as Angela cleaned off the excess fluid and put Band-Aids on the deeper cuts.

After examining her handy work, Angela stepped back, and noticed the sprig of flowers Fareeha had in her hand. Her eyes lit up in recognition of them, and she leant forward to smell them. “Oh, those are nice ones!”

Fareeha made a noise in agreement. “What are they?”

“ _Holunder_ ,” she said in German, and then made a face, straining to think. “’Erm… Elder, in English, I think?’” she said, not sounding too certain for a moment. “Elderflowers? Yes, that’s it. It’s from an elder tree.” She looked out towards the tree Fareeha had been working beside. Her eyes were glazed for a moment, distant. She was thinking. After a moment, she said to herself, “I wonder…” and left Fareeha’s side to go ferret around the sunny side of the huge tree.

Fareeha watched her turning over branches until she came across what she’d been looking for: sprigs of hanging, purple berries. “Aha!”

Fareeha abandoned her cuttings to have a closer look.

“Elderberries!” Angela said, showing Fareeha a branch of them with girlish excitement in her voice. “I haven’t see these since I left! I’ve just been buying syrup in jars and wine in bottles for the last 30 years, but we _always_ used to pick these in summer and make everything the traditional way!” She let the branch go and stood back at moment, hands on her hips, surveying the tree with a big smile on her face. “And we have an elder in our own back yard! I can’t believe it! Here,” she motioned for Fareeha to follow her, “help me get the mixing bowls. Let’s pick them!”

Even though the garden was only half-pruned, there was no way Fareeha was going to refuse. It had been so long since Angela had had this much energy. There was such purity in it, Fareeha reflected, secretly watching Angela’s face as she babbled about the ‘alleged’ health-benefits of elderberries (“Of course, the studies were biased, deeply flawed and poorly designed, but they’re still full of Vitamin C!”) as she took handfuls of the pink-stemmed dark purple berries and dropped them in her bowl. Fareeha _loved_ this side of her, and she got to see it so rarely.

After they’d filled their bowls and carried them inside, Angela instructed Fareeha to wash them while she went to get “some things we’ll need”.

Angela returned with the blender (which Fareeha had expected)… but also a set of test tubes, an odd medical-looking measurement-thing, a thermometer, and a bunch of other implements Fareeha didn’t recognise. They looked like they belonged in a laboratory.

Fareeha eyed them as Angela set them up. “…We’re not about to make traditional Swiss meth, are we?”

Angela laughed. “ _No_ ,” she said. “These are used to make elderberry wine.”

Fareeha’s brow dipped in concern. “Alcohol?”

Angela stopped a moment to put a hand on her arm. “ _Weak_ alcohol,” she promised. “I’ll be careful. You can drink it with me.”

Fareeha pursed her lips, but accepted that with a nod. It had been a long time since Angela had had any problems with it, anyway.  

The process of making the wine was actually rather scientific—no wonder Angela was having so much fun with it. After the berries had been crushed and mixed with water, depending on the native sugar concentration of the liquid, more sugar needed to be added. The whole thing seemed to require a lot of measuring and re-measuring, a lot of Angela scribbling numbers on a video widow and trying to make the math add up, and a lot of dissolving exact amounts of sugar into the liquid, cooling it, and re-re-remeasuring. Then, after the sugar content was right, Angela spent about 10 minutes trying to determine if the mixture was acidic enough.

“Well, I suppose we need to get the other ingredients anyway,” she decided eventually, and then washed her hands. “Let’s go see if somewhere sells tartaric acid in Brig.”

“Other ingredients?” Fareeha asked as they both fastened their seat belts and Angela was listing ingredients like _diammonium phosphate_ and _potassium metabisulfate_. “Potassium die-a-death-ate isn’t enough?”

“Well, there’s the arsenic, too,” Angela told her, casually reversing out of their driveway at the speed of light. “It’s tricky to get the amount just right—too little and the wine tastes no good, too much and, well. It _is_ arsenic.”

Fareeha gave her a horrified look. “Really?”

Angela bit back a smile, and shook her head. “Arsenic is a _poison_ , Fareeha. Of course not.”

Fareeha put her hands over her eyes and groaned again as Angela drove them down to Brig.

Gathering all the ingredients turned out to be harder than Angela had expected, and after trawling through every supermarket and wine shop in Brig, they ended up in a chemist with Angela arguing with the Pharmacist about the best way to extract some element she needed out of a drug.

After a good fifteen minutes of deliberation, she decided that the extraction process would be too involved. The pharmacist looked relieved, “You’d do better in Lucerne,” he said. “There are lots of hobby wine suppliers there, they’ll have everything.”

Reluctantly agreeing with him, Angela ushered Fareeha out of the chemist and they stood on the pavement for a moment, exhaling. Angela turned Fareeha, taking a breath. “So…” she said hopefully, putting on her best set of big blue puppy eyes. “Do you feel like a bit of a road trip…?”

Fareeha sighed deeply, but ended up laughing. They were on holiday, weren’t they? Wasn’t spontaneity part of the fun? “Let’s go,” she said, and let Angela lead her back to their car.

It was mid-afternoon when they left the beautiful rolling Swiss countryside and hit picturesque Lucerne—early enough for the couple to find a park, go hunting around the beautiful winding alleyways for the hobby shops the pharmacist had recommended, and emerge from them with a bag full of tiny little bottles.

Fareeha held one up. “I expected them to be bigger,” she admitted. “I can’t believe we drove for four hours for,” she turned the bottle, “four grams of _diammonium phosphate_.”

“Well, not _just_ for that,” Angela said, gesturing out towards the beautiful lake. “Can you think of a prettier city to purchase diammonium phosphate from? Let’s make a night of it while we’re here. I’ll show you around.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring cobble-stoned alleys and wooden bridges, admiring famous statues, and, at as the afternoon ended, circling the lake with slow and leisurely steps, hand-in-hand.

The sunset was throwing beautiful pinks and oranges over the mountains and across the lake, and while Fareeha was admiring it (or, to be more honest, admiring Angela admiring it), she caught sight of a familiar tree as they strolled past.

Recognising it, she let go of Angela’s for a second, ducking over to pluck a familiar sprig of white flowers and then presenting them a little comically to Angela.

“How romantic,” Angela teased as she accepted them. “You must have spent a fortune.”

“Isn’t it the thought that counts?” Fareeha asked innocently, linking hands with her again. “Besides, they’re why we’re here. I think they’re the best flowers I could give you.”

Experimentally, Angela threaded them over her ear. They stuck out in weird directions. “What do you think?” she asked, striking a somewhat silly pose. “Will I start a trend?”

Fareeha leant back in exaggerated thoughtfulness, and was about to make a joking assessment of her… but she didn’t, in the end. She couldn’t help but notice what she was looking at.

Lake Lucerne was behind Angela, lit with beautiful oranges and pinks from the sun. Angela’s pale hair caught the same colours, and the sunset even tinted the white elderflowers a rich pink. She was just being silly, but… Honestly? She looked beautiful. Silly, but beautiful. She was always the most beautiful thing Fareeha had ever seen, and tonight, she had a sort of… peace about her. The look of a child worn out by a day of play, a look of total contentment.

 _This crazy woman has just driven me halfway across the country for potassium-something-ate and now has odd flowers in her hair_ , Fareeha realised, her chest swelling with emotion.  

“I love you,” she found herself saying, as she pulled Angela in to hug her close and kiss her forehead.

Angela was laughing. “Where did _that_ come from?”

Fareeha shook her head dismissively, a smile on her lips as she spent a few seconds with her arms tightly around this wonderful woman.

When she released her, Angela broke another sprig of elderflowers off the bunch and put it above Fareeha’s ear. “There,” she said in faux-seriousness, eyes twinkling. “Now we match.”

Then, as the colours from the sunset faded, they wandered Lucerne arm-in-arm, ridiculous flowers in their hair and big, silly smiles on their faces.

 


	6. F is for Freedom (Moira, Mercy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Moira's first day at Overwatch, she and Mercy get off on the wrong foot.

Moira

-

 

When you’re a geneticist in a time of robotic prosthetics and tech enhancements (the currently ‘in vogue’ method of human augmentation), you’ll take whatever funding you can garner. So, when Overwatch offered me a position in their rather… well, _righteous_ organisation, I naturally accepted. Beggars can’t be choosers.

Not that the position didn’t hold some attraction for me anyway: their labs had state-of-the-art facilities, all the brand new PCR workstations and thermocyclers I could never get my hands on in university labs. It’s just that I would just have to tread carefully around their religiously guarded ethics process, the manual of which was longer than _War and Peace_. I read it just to make sure I didn’t step _too_ out of line.

From what I could gather, I’d have my own lab, a broad list of topics to choose to research from, and access to three assistants, should I require them. I didn’t. I’ve always preferred to work alone.

I set the start date of my contract between Christmas and New Years’ for that reason exactly—I figured that no one would be about in the labs that week. I could explore the facility, set up my own lab in privacy, and decide exactly how I could squeeze in my own private research away from prying eyes.

You can imagine my surprise when I arrived at Overwatch HQ, located my lab, and opened the door to—

—a sweet blonde thing much younger than I, wearing an Overwatch lab coat and smiling warmly at me. I recognised her.

I was momentarily was worried about why that was—had I slept with her at biotech conference and forgotten about it?—before I noticed her nametag said ‘Dr A Ziegler’. I immediately realised I’d seen her face from lecture streams I watched occasionally; not to mention on Overwatch posters. She was even prettier in real life.

Pretty, but here in my lab when I’d been looking forward to settling in alone. Perhaps I was in the wrong place? “Is this…” I checked my notes, “Lab 303?”

“Yes, this is 303,” she confirmed. “You must be Dr O’Deorain. It wonderful to have you working with Overwatch!” She stood up and approached me.

I let her shake my hand. “Thank you, Dr Ziegler. I enjoyed your lecture series on viral transporters in nanotech very much.”

She smiled. “Ah, yes. It’ll be my legacy if I can ever perfect it…” she said with a long sigh, and then chuckled. “Anyway, let’s get straight to business, shall we? I imagine you’d like to know how everything works.”

 _I already know how everything works,_ I thought, but just continued to smile at her. It wouldn’t do to get my co-workers offside on my first day at a new job.

She was warm and chatty; I’m sure most people loved that in her. She gave me the 101 of how most of the machines worked—machines I’d been using for 20 years—and when we got to the incubator I had to stop her. It was just too painful. “You needn’t explain this one to me,” I said with my own warm smile. “I use one daily.”

She didn’t flinch. “I’m sure you do, Dr O’Deorain,” she said, “but it’s policy that I go through all the machines with new employees.”

What a ridiculous waste of time. “Even employees that clearly know how to operate them all?”

“Yes, even those,” she said calmly, and continued explaining the machine. I felt like I was at university again, being taught the ABCs of biochem when I was already writing poetry with it.

She didn’t stop, either. When I realised she was going to walk me about the whole facility and explain things like _the approved way to wash my hands_ and the entire history of Overwatch (as if the public hadn’t had that rammed down their throats for the last decade), I decided to make another attempt at freeing myself.

I touched her shoulder briefly to stop her as we made our way towards the theatres. “Dr Zielger—”

“Angela.” She gave me a smile as she turned towards me. Her sweetness had become somewhat more saccharin.

 _Ugh_. “Angela,” I repeated, trying to stay polite and courteous. “Honestly, I don’t need an orientation. I know my way around labs. And, besides, it’s Christmas. I’m sure you’d rather be at home with your family than showing around a grumpy new co-worker like myself.” I forced a smile.

Something passed over her face. “Oh, it’s no problem. I’m Jewish,” she said. Not rudely, but I felt foolish all the same. “And unfortunately, like many of us, I lost most of my family in the last Omnic crisis.”

Oh, my lord. Well, this was turning out to be a grand beginning for us; I don’t think I’d ever had a more awkward exchange. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “I just explained because I want you to understand you’re not keeping me here. It’s always been a policy of mine to spend the first week with new staff helping them get their feet, making sure they understand how we report research at Overwatch, and going over their proposals together.”

Brilliant. It appeared I _wasn’t_ going to get the quiet I’d been looking forward to, and I’d have to wait at least another week before getting on with my ‘private’ research. “I see.”

I don’t think she liked my tone, but she managed to sound compassionate anyway. “Dr O’Deorain—”

“Moira.” I gave her the same saccharin smile she’d given me.

Oh, she _definitely_ didn’t like my tone. I could see her flinch. “ _Moira_ ,” she said, unhappy at being interrupted, but dismissing it. She stepped forward and put a hand on one of my crossed arms. “I know this must be difficult for you: I’ve read all your papers, you’re used to working alone. However, in Overwatch, we work as a team. We all help each other with research.”

I was torn between being more bothered by how patronising that sounded and how claustrophobic that sounded. “I see.”

She let her hand fall from my arm. “Give it a chance. Perhaps you’ll like having support now that it’s freely available to you.”

I very, very much doubted that. I didn’t need it, and I didn’t want people looking over my shoulder. “I appreciate that offer, but I work best alone.”

She exhaled. “Well, I’m sure you’ll adapt,” she said a little sharply. “I’m looking forward to seeing some of your work, myself. We can get started this week, if you like. While there’s just the two of us.”

I didn’t really know how to respond to that; but it _grated_ me. I didn’t want a busybody co-worker hanging around and watching everything I did. “I must confess I find it difficult to concentrate when there are other people around,” I lied. “I’m not sure that it would be very helpful for you to—”

“I insist.” That saccharin smile again. “It’s important that you know how to fill in the machine use logs—for auditing purposes, you understand—and that you catalogue every single specimen you create using our—”

Alright, this was getting tiresome. “I understand all that. I don’t need to have the policies explained to me, I read the manual.”

She was losing her patience with me, too. “Really?” she asked. Her voice had a hard edge. “I very much doubt you’ve read it properly.”

“And why is that?”

“Because if you had, you’d know you need to wear an Overwatch lab coat, and not your own.” Her sweet smile had a hint of triumph in it.

I actually _hadn’t_ read that. I wondered if it was truly in the manual, or if she was toying with me. Either way, I wasn’t going to let her win this one. I looked down my front. “Actually, I did read that,” I lied. “I just doubt you’d have one here that fits me.”

“The Men’s XL will fit you.”

“The Men’s XL will be too baggy around the shoulders and too tight around the hips.”

She did not look impressed. “Well, it’s a good thing this is a research lab and not a fashion show,” she said shortly, and then ushered me rather forcefully into one of the private offices, placing a folded garment in my hand. “Put this on,” she instructed me flatly. She’d stopped trying to be polite.

I looked at it. There was no way I was wearing this ugly, shapeless piece of tarpaulin. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind. I’m happy with—”

“Yes, you’ve made yourself quite clear on that front,” she said, speaking over me. “But our lab coats are formulated out of retardant fabric and for insurance purposes you must wear it. Put it on. That’s not a request.”

I felt like I was being bossed around by a yappy little dog. “Excuse me for this,” I said, not meaning it, “but who are you to give me orders? Commander Morrison hired me, not you.”

She looked taken aback a moment, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

Then, slowly, she gathered herself, and marched me over to the name plate on the office door.  

It read, ‘ _Dr Angela Ziegler, Ph.D, Director Medical Research_ ’.

My stomach dropped as I stared at it. Lord help me; that explained why she’d seen fit to boss me around.

“I’m your _boss_ ,” she reiterated, looking flustered. “That’s who I am. Now, please put on the correct lab coat and follow me, you are going to get your full employee orientation and I will need to supervise you for the next week to make sure you operate as per our policies.” She was breathing quickly; she was even angrier than she appeared.

I swallowed. Well, this was a fine state of affairs: I’d made myself look like a right fool _and_ made an enemy of my boss and I’d not been here even a full day.

Pulling on the ugly shapeless lab coat, I obediently followed Angela around the facility and pretended to have been well chastised by her. It wouldn’t do for her to see me as an adversary, I’d have to pretend to be the perfect picture of compliance if she was ever going to give me even a millimetre of freedom.

This was going to be harder than I thought; that was, unless I could win her over, somehow.

Yes, that was the solution, wasn’t it? Getting back into her good books.

Rather than focus on what she was saying, I just watched her as she spoke and put my mind to thinking about how I could get this woman to like me. I must confess it wasn’t such a bad view to have while I was considering my options—and it was _that_ thought that cemented my decision.

As she was delivering me back to my lab, hackles up like an angry dog, I stopped her. This time, I left my hand on her tense shoulder. “Angela,” I began, pretending to be sheepish. “Look, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot, and I’m ashamed of how to spoke to you. It was out of order. Would you let me buy you lunch as a peace offering?”

The winkles in her brow smoothed.

“Please?” I gently squeezed her arm and flashed her the smile I knew women loved. “I feel terrible.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Yes, we did start off rather badly, didn’t we?” Now she managed a smile of her own. She took a moment. “I should apologise, too—I don’t normally lose my temper, and I don’t like how I am at all when I do. It’s not our way to pull rank here, and I feel awful when I have to do it.”

This was going better than I’d anticipated. “I’m sorry I forced your hand, then.”

She nodded. “It’s quite alright.” She exhaled at length, and then chuckled a couple of times. “Well, why not? After such a tense morning I could use a break from this place,” she said. “And it would be good for us to get to know one another properly, as we’ll be working together.”

“That’s settled then,” I told her, and then looked down my front at my ill-fitting Overwatch lab coat. “I’ll even wear this into town as penance.”

Her smile brightened. “That won’t be necessary!”

I shook my head. “I insist,” I told her, ushering her towards the hallway. “It serves me right.”

It was a good idea to have done that—because every time she looked at me wearing this horrible monstrosity, she chuckled. There was a coyness about it, too— _good_. Perhaps I’d be able to get her trust after all. Perhaps even a little more than her trust.

And with her trust and whatever else she’d give me, perhaps I’d get a little freedom to pursue my own private research, after all.


End file.
